I’m at dinner with Carly and her boyfriend, and I don’t know how much more of their romance I can take.
The affection they have for one another doesn’t typically bother me. They clearly love each other, and they seem to know the other better than they know themselves. And the little things they do for each other, consciously or not, are a testament to the depth of that love. Most days, it keeps my belief in romance alive and thriving.
Tonight, it makes me sick.
I try not to watch them snuggle closer as I lift my wine glass and knock back what’s left of the Shiraz in one gulp. The temptation to signal for another bottle is strong, but it’s probably in my best interest to just get out of here and sulk in peace.
Before I can tell Carly as much, though, Justin picks up the dessert menu. He declares that the chocolate mousse cake here is amazing, and if we leave without trying it, he’ll never forgive us. I usually adore Justin, but tonight I want to drive my fork through his eye.
I push my chair back before I can give in to the urge. He doesn’t deserve it, and Carly would be furious. Truthfully, the man has beautiful eyes. It would be a tragedy if he lost one.
“I’ll be back,” I mumble as I stand. “Just heading to the bathroom.”
“Oh, I’ll come with you,” Carly says, taking her napkin from her lap and dropping it next to her plate.
Pretending I don’t hear her, I spin and weave through the tables of the quaint Italian restaurant before she can protest.
I just need a moment alone to chill the fuck out. Neither Carly nor Justin have done anything wrong, and I don’t want to take my frustration out on them.
I’ve had too much to drink, I’m horny after two weeks of no sex, and all I can think about is falling into bed with Daniel. We hooked up two nights in a row the last time I was in New York, squeezing in as many rounds as we could manage. By that Wednesday morning, I was nothing short of wrecked. I was so sore that I had to trade the jeans I pulled on that morning for leggings, despite the temperature being below freezing. Needless to say, I shivered and winced the whole way to the office, though I splurged on an Uber to get to Penn Station after work. It was a lesson learned. Now I know that there’s such a thing as too much rough sex.
Right now, though, I wish I’d bottled up some of those orgasms to save for this dry spell, because the self-induced ones I’ve had to settle for don’t come anywhere close to measuring up. I want to feel the weight of him on top of me, the heat of his skin. I want to trace the patterns of ink on his shoulder, to run my tongue over every inch of him.
But I can’t, and I’m furious about it.
I shove my way into the bathroom and lock myself in a stall, then close my eyes and breathe. When Carly comes in, her heels clicking against the tile floor, I consider bolting. But if I do that, she’ll abandon her plans to stay at Justin’s tonight so she can come home with me and press for answers about why I took off so suddenly.
Blowing out a breath, I yank out a few sheets of toilet paper from the dispenser and dab at my forehead, feeling like an overheated mess. Honestly, I’m embarrassed for myself. Witnessing the love between my best friend and her wonderful boyfriend should make me happy, but instead I’m…bitter. Jealous. Overwhelmed by the realization that I want that kind of relationship too.
I’ve been fine as a single woman for years. Sometimes my job makes me want a partner, someone who will worship the ground I walk on and whom I can worship in return. But most of the time, it makes me realize just how much work relationships can be.
The thing about writing stories that show every beat of a couple’s journey—including after the original happily ever after, when they’ve been together for ages—means that I have to create drama between the characters in order to keep the story entertaining for the reader. Not everything can be smooth sailing forever. Every couple will run into their rough patches and tough spots, but it’s how they get through them that makes the story.
But that’s fiction. It’s romance with a capital R. With it comes a blatant promise that everything will work out in the end. That the characters will get their permanent happily ever after—when they finally get to the end. It’s not always like that in real life. And typically, that reminder is enough to keep me happy being unattached.
Except I’m starting to wonder if that’s still what I want.
“You okay?” Carly asks from the stall next to mine, pulling me out of my thoughts. “You’ve been a little broody all night.”
Of course she caught on. We’re the kind of best friends who practically share the same one brain cell most of the time, and there’s no getting anything past her. That doesn’t mean I won’t try.
“Just getting a headache,” I tell her, dropping the paper now covered in golden-tan foundation into the toilet. “I’ll be fine.”
I flush to keep the conversation from continuing, then unlock the stall door and head to the sink. As I wash my hands, I avoid my reflection in the mirror. I can’t bear to look at myself, to see in my eyes what I’ve been trying to deny all night.
I miss Daniel.
The thought almost makes me gag. I can’t believe I miss him. Not just the life-altering orgasms he’s been responsible for, but the man himself. What the fuck?
Something shifted between us the last time I was in the city—on my side, at least. The possessiveness he showed, the physical adoration, the praise he lavished upon me, all left my head spinning. Professionally, I still hate him; that’s a given. But personally, though it pains me to acknowledge, I’m starting to feel attached to him. Possessive in my own right.
Except that’s not allowed in no-strings situations. We agreed to casual. At my insistence, nonetheless. So I can only hope that this is a fleeting feeling, that he’ll reignite my rage toward him soon and dull my obsessive crush.
Thank God I don’t have his phone number. If I did, I probably would have drunk texted him already and blabbed all my secrets. Our only modes of communication are Slack and email, and I’m not foolish enough to contact him from an official work account on a Saturday night.
“Seriously, babe,” Carly says, using her no-nonsense voice as she joins me at the sink. “What’s going on?”
I nearly snap at her that I’m fine, but I manage to hold back. Carly doesn’t deserve to be my punching bag.
I’m tempted to tell her the truth—that I’m obsessing over a guy that I shouldn’t be, pissed that I can’t be with him right now, and struggling with how to feel about it all.
And it’s a wonder I haven’t broken down and filled her in. If there’s anyone I could confess this to, it’s her. We don’t usually keep things from each other.
But this? I want to keep it to myself. It’s going to end sooner or later. She’d never judge me for fucking around and catching feelings for a man I can never be with, but I’ll feel the mortification of it anyway.
So instead, I groan and complain about how I can’t get out of this new project at work. Because I am pretty upset about it, and it’s one more reason I’m so conflicted about what I’m feeling for Daniel. He’s making my life at work miserable while simultaneously making me feel so incredibly wanted.
The last time I felt this way about someone, I ended up screwed over and brokenhearted. I’ll never say I’m jaded; I believe in love and romance, and I believe there’s someone out there who will love me for me one day. But opening myself up to that after being hurt and unwanted for so long terrifies me.
“Let’s get back to the table,” I tell her as I dry my hands. “I have a feeling Justin will eat all the cake by himself if we give him the chance.”
Carly laughs, and I motion for her to lead the way out, forcing myself to smile until her back is to me.
I need to get myself under control. Daniel may make it clear he’s the one in charge in bed, but I can’t let him take over any other parts of my life.
Too bad I kind of want him to.
